Terms of Surrender
by mswyrr
Summary: [Dany/Sansa/Jon OT3] "The first time we were alone together," Daenerys said, "Sansa asked me if I intended to proceed by taking kingdoms from men on their sickbeds." A fond look passed over her face.
1. Chapter 1

Looking back, it seemed to Jon that Sansa had staged her own bloodless conquest. It began at Winterfell. While the Northern lords grumbled about Targaryen fiends and fought the dead, she had kept the peace. Befriended Daenerys. After the final battle, Jon awoke long enough to see them doing needlepoint beside his sickbed. Heads together, white as snow and kissed by fire, Sansa's hand across Daenerys' shoulders. "Just like that, your grace."

He faded back into a true sleep then. Only to awake later to find that their lessons continued: they were awkwardly shuffling through a court dance at the foot of his bed. He saw Daenerys' hand on Sansa's shoulder, her head tilted up toward her taller partner, eyes alight and a smile on her lips.

The queen's Small Council smiled upon it: it couldn't hurt for her to learn the ways of Westerosi ladies. Then, when they learned of Jon's parentage, Sansa was ideally positioned to negotiate for greater Northern autonomy.

It was like a magic trick, treaties appearing at Sansa's fingertips as if from thin air. Before he even began to get his head around the news, he was learning about the specifics of trade and military agreements they had signed. All seven kingdoms would still be bound to the Iron Throne, but Sansa would hold the title of Queen in the North, with greater autonomy in her domain than any others enjoyed.

"Right under my nose!" Tyrion fumed, wine sloshing as he gesticulated. "She knitted and schemed." There was bitterness and admiration both in his tone. "It was subtle, underhanded, deceitful. A power move cloaked in charm. She reminds me..." he seemed to search for a dire enough insult, "of _me_."

For the first time in days, Jon laughed.

XxX

"The title alone means a great deal to their pride," Sansa explained, walking with him on Winterfell's battlements. "The bannermen have their own Northern monarch. Once that was agreed, I had room to negotiate on specifics of taxation, law, defense. Queen Daenerys and I had a strong common goal," she spread her gloved hands, "rebuilding the world you both saved from the darkness."

It was a great compliment, but he felt it belonged to someone else. It seemed to him now that he wasn't sure where he belonged, or what belonged to him. Daenerys was insistent he should take Iron Throne, the one thing he was sure he did not want. Standing there with Sansa as the man born Aegon Targaryen, Jon felt more adrift than he had as a bastard.

"You'll make a good queen," Jon said. That much he could be certain of, at least. The North was in the right hands.

"Thank you. But enough of politics." Her gloved fingers reached for his own. "Tell me how you fare, Jon."

He looked out over the countryside, tilted his head up and breathed in the crisp Northern air. Snowflakes were beginning to fall. Not the pounding hail and winds and darkness that had come during their battles with the Night King, light snow, floating on the breeze. Gentle as a prayer.

"I'll miss Winterfell," he admitted.

Weeks ago now, he and Daenerys had married in the godswood. She looked so perfect there, a vision in silver and white, as untamed and magical as the wood itself. It was a quick ceremony, their time carved out between battles. But it meant so much to him. He grew up believing he could never marry, never really have family of his own. Daenerys drew these deep hurts out of his heart and made them right. If they died, they would die a family, united by vows before his gods.

He had never felt such belonging as he did that night.

Compared to the purity of that union, the discovery of their familial relation seemed almost absurd. The cruel mockery of fate. Daenerys was delighted to know she was no longer the last, though, and he was happy for her. Especially after Sansa had discreetly enumerated the perfectly honorable Stark ancestors who had married uncle to niece, settling his discomfort on that front.

"Then promise me you'll visit often," she said. "You have a dragon! There's no excuse not to come see us."

He turned to look at her and felt a sense of loss as keen a bolt through his chest. Aegon Targaryen had caused the Starks nothing but pain, concealed in the bosom of their family. Surely, in time, Sansa would come to see that. He wouldn't make it hard for her when she did. "You'll be busy," he said, "running your kingdom."

Sansa gave his shoulder a gentle smack. "Don't talk nonsense, Jon."

Jon frowned, shook his head.

She took him by the shoulders, after her habit of making free with his person. It warmed him, to know she still felt that safe with him. "Winterfell is your home," she said, "You fought for it, for your _family_. It doesn't matter what name you're called, you're a Stark. Stark blood runs in your veins, just like the rest of us." She stared at him a long moment. "I know King's Landing and the future it holds is frightening, but I will always be here to take your part."

Jon spoke then, the words pouring out as if her kindness had punched a hole in an over-full wineskin. "The maesters are saying I'm Lightbringer, a weapon Rhaegar Targaryen forged in my mother's blood." He felt himself shaking with the outrage he had been concealing - for the sake of Daenerys, who loved her lost brothers dearly, no matter how awful they seemed to him, for the sake of everyone who was so glad the battle was won. No matter the cost. "They say he had to kill her to make me," Jon continued, and felt like he had swallowed broken glass. By all accounts, Rhaegar was obsessed with the prophecies. If the maesters believed that was what he'd done, surely he must have suspected the possibility? Had he told Lyanna-no more than fifteen when it began-what she might be agreeing to?

He longed for the days when he dreamed his mother was a tavern wench, alive somewhere. Or a highborn lady who could not claim him. Instead there were just the cold words of a prophecy, naming him a weapon forged in a loving woman's heart. "I _spilled_ her blood, Sansa, I didn't inherit it. I-" he turned away, pressed his hands to the battlements and bowed his head, digging his fingers against the stone through his leather gloves.

There was young Lyanna Stark, dead. And then there were his brother and sister, bastardized for his sake. An innocent woman, Elia Martell, callously dishonored and cast aside. All of them left to die without protection. Everyone spoke so highly of Rhaegar Targaryen. His gambit at fate had paid off, unlike Stannis' blood magic. And everyone likes a winner, no matter the cost.

Jon couldn't help counting the cost. And wondering why he yet lived, when so many others were dead. What good was a weapon when its purpose was done?

Sansa rubbed slow circles against his back, as he choked around a desperate sob, then gathered himself. When his breathing had steadied, she spoke. "Bran said that they loved each other."

"I know," Jon said. "But the prophecy-"

"Forget the prophecy," Sansa said. "And the maesters too. They spend their lives coming up with theories. And most of them are wrong."

He tried to perk up for her, he really did. But the heaviness that was upon him wouldn't lift. Seeing this, she went on. "When you look at Daenerys, do you see the Mad King's daughter? I don't. I see Daenerys. I see her courage and decency, the good things she's done. I see the world she saved. The world you saved too, not because of some prophecy, but because you're a good man. A man any woman would be proud to call her son."

The pain eased enough for embarrassment to creep in and Jon stood, straightening himself. "Thank you," he said.

She stepped forward and pulled him into a hug; he stiffened at the contact, surprised. "I'll keep saying it until you believe it. And I'll keep hugging you too," she said, stepping back and giving him an impish look, "whether you like it or not."

He remembered the way she had bullied him into living at Castle Black, when all he wanted to do was crawl back into the grave. When he most needed it, she was ready to give him a vision of himself she could believe in. That was a start, at least. "Am I to be thus threatened in my own home?" he griped, signaling to her that part of her words had sunk in. Even his morose skull could not keep so many good, kind words out.

"Indeed you will," she said, taking his arm as they continued their walk, "I have these threats and more besides, which you will learn during your _many_ visits."

He patted her gloved hand with his own. "Yes, your grace."


	2. Chapter 2

King's Landing was pit of snakes. Criminals at the Wall had more honor than most of the Southern nobles. Jon felt himself losing the will to live just listening to them talk, let alone trying to play their foolish games. For her part, Daenerys seemed to enjoy going after them, cultivating some and putting others in their place. She held long strategy sessions with Tyrion and Varys, managing every angle. Jon lobbied for the title of king consort, with her as the queen ruling on the Iron Throne, and she accepted, though not without hesitance.

She feared he would come to resent her for taking his birthright.

Just before she was crowned, she promised the throne was his if he should ever want it. Truly, it was a relief to focus on other things. He organized military affairs for her, arranged a queensguard and kept them in top form, and made regular visits to the North. It was good work that needed to be done and done well.

The most surprising thing, after two years passed, was learning how it felt to be truly happy. Daenerys was a good and just queen. Supporting her reign gave a noble purpose to even the hardest days. And the reward for all their labors was the sweetness between them.

There was family, too. Sansa kept her word, welcoming him home every time he came North. He sparred with Arya and Tormund in the crisp, clean air; drank and laughed in the great hall. Daenerys took to visiting with him as often as her busy schedule allowed. When she couldn't come up, Sansa got in the habit of coming down to King's Landing with him on Rhaegal. Through them, he came to grudgingly appreciate King's Landing. Sansa and Daenerys put on plays and dances, brought in the finest musicians.

There were a few good things about city life.

And then came the second stage of Sansa's bloodless conquest. This time she came not for Northern independence, but for his queen. It left him stunned and bereft, staring out at the sea as it glimmered beneath the rising half-moon. Gripped by the cold, empty feeling he'd grown up with. The certainty that there was nothing and no one to call his own. Everything he had begged and borrowed from his betters.

Watching Sansa eat lemon cake and wondering what it tasted like.

Of course they would prefer each other. They were perfectly matched. Bright and noble. Kingdoms balanced delicately in the palms of their hands. They had conversations with more layers than he could count.

To think he had enjoyed that once.

He couldn't even hate Sansa for it. In the glimpse he'd had, the long stunned moment before Sansa's mouth opened in shock and Jon turned on his heel to leave, he'd seen both Daenerys' tender mouth kissing Sansa's breasts and the lines of scarring. They seemed to wrap around Sansa's torso like thorny vines, rust red and cruel. His stomach dropped to realize that things had been even worse for her than he'd imagined.

Daenerys liked to kiss his scars too. Each in turn, as if she could wear the pain away kiss by kiss. It made his heart light. Did it ease the pain in Sansa's heart too? Tears finally came to his eyes as his hope for her mingled with the bitterness of his loss.

He couldn't hate her. But couldn't she have found someone else? Did she have to seduce his wife? Take her lips, the solace of her love. He tried to cast his mind back, understand when this started. He hadn't sensed a change in Daenerys. Perhaps he was just that easily fooled.

Sansa came to speak to him just as he'd given up locating the precise moment she'd snatched his love away. He heard soft steps, felt a presence behind him, and then her voice: "Please, try to understand."

He was much angrier than he thought. Resentment flashed hot across his skin. "You love her," he said, keeping his face firmly set toward the sea. He didn't want to frighten her. "I understand that perfectly."

"Jon—" she started.

He cut her off. "But I don't understand the rest. I would never do such a thing to you, Sansa. Seduce your—" he trailed off, logic catching up with him.

"Wife?" she offered. "But I can't have a wife, can I? People call it a sin." The words hung in the air, heavy with injustice. No fair god could consider it a sin for Sansa to have someone kind to kiss her pain away. But the gods were not fair, nor the men and women who served them. "The last woman I loved... as much as I could love her, I couldn't have her or protect her. She died in this very city." She said every word crispy, her highborn accent sharp with righteous anger.

He felt his own anger diminishing in the light of her pain, and resented it. Must this, too, belong only to her? "I'm sorry," he said, "for what you've suffered. You know that I would do anything…" He had, in fact, done everything in his power to give her home and safety and a future. He turned to meet her eyes. "But do I owe you my wife?"

"It's not like that, Jon. It doesn't have to be like that." She stepped closer. "She loves you too."

He tried to imagine it, a tangled knot of shifting love and uncertainty. "How could we possibly—?"

An eager light came into her eyes. "There are so many ways! Arrangements. Accommodations. It is more common than you think. People find ways. They..." she licked her lips, eyes hopeful, "share." She reached for his hand, imploringly.

Arrangements. Accommodations. Jon had seen things like that here at King's Landing. Husbands and wives who slept with whomever they willed and seemed to take little joy in it. Whose hearts were empty and cold, voids papered over with finery and haughty words. Men who left a trail of bastards behind them, careless of the lives they destroyed. At least there would be some nobility in losing Daenerys' love to Sansa honestly, rather than see the three of them debased like that.

He stepped back from her, disgusted. Didn't she love Daenerys? "I don't understand you," he said. "How could you want such a life?"

Her hands stilled and fell, along with her face. "Must you be cruel, Jon?"

"I made a vow," he said, trying to explain. "So did she. What _is_ love, if a vow means nothing?"

"Find a new way to love!" she cried, frustration evident. "A better, freer way." She watched his face closely for a long moment. Seeing that he was unmoved by her words, her face twisted, anger rising. "You and father and Robb – you were always so constrained by foolish honor. You let yourself be controlled by the rules other men make."

He could not have been more hurt if she had slapped him across the face. "I pray you forgive me," he said, "for being a man of honor," and left before she could speak.

XxX

He slunk off to a guest bedroom with a bottle of wine and tried to forget the look of devastation on Sansa's face, the matching hurt in his own heart. Mere hours after falling asleep he was shocked awake by the covers being ripped away, the curtains thrown open, and his royal wife glaring down at him. The sunlight cut like knives through his aching head.

He blinked slowly, focusing on Daenerys. Her arms were stiff at her sides, her shoulders back, chin high. As if she was unconsciously trying to make herself look bigger to frighten away a predator.

"What did you say to her?" she demanded. There was bright fury in her eyes.

It struck him more deeply now that Sansa had stolen her heart. Daenerys' anger was as natural to her as Drogon's roar was to him, a warning and a declaration: _Don't touch what is mine._ It had never frightened Jon as it did others. He remembered the white-hot flame of it in his own chest as he beat Ramsay Bolton's face in. He could always see the lines of it tracing back to love and protection. And he knew how easily it could be soothed by those same emotions.

There was a time she would have defended him like this, from even small insults. It made him feel truly wanted for the first time in his life. That time was gone now, it seemed. Instead she marched in here, as if he was a villain and they the injured parties.

His uneasy stomach twisted at the depth of his loss.

"She called me a fool and my honor foolish," he gritted out. It seemed to him that, in loving each other, they had both cast him out of their hearts. The hole that left was so sudden and abrupt he felt hollowed out around it. "For my part, I made no insults to her," he said. "I asked her if vows ought not to mean something. I asked her if I owed her my wife."

"I am not your possession," Daenerys said, still so bloody self-righteous. "To be owed to anyone."

Jon stood from the bed, glared at her. "When have I _ever_ behaved as if I thought you were my possession, _your grace_?" he snapped, emphasizing her title. He'd given her his birthright, accepted her rulership.

Daenerys' eyes widened. After a long moment, her posture eased, her fury ebbing. "She cried all night," Daenerys said, her words softer now, as much an explanation as an accusation. "Do you find satisfaction in that?"

"You ravished my sister," he accused, putting it in the harshest possible light. He felt his own back straighten in indignation. If they were hurting each other with words, he was not unarmed. "Do you find satisfaction in that?"

"A great deal," she snapped right back, unwilling to back down.

They could go on like this for hours, he thought. Around and around. Instead he turned his back on her, dragged himself over to the nearest water jug, poured himself a glass, and slowly drank it. He felt steadier by the time he was done. "What do you want of me?" he finally asked, turning to face her.

"I want you to be kinder to your cousin," she said. "I _am_ the one who broke my vow to you," she admitted, her regret clear, his words having found their mark. "And I am sorry for it."

"It's a difficult vow to break without assistance," he said, "wouldn't you agree?"

Daenerys sighed. "I see."

He glared at her. "What do you see?"

"I see that you will need time to be angry about this - Sansa couldn't. She relied on you when she had no one else, and so you will always have a place of special honor in her heart. Your judgment cuts deeper than anyone else's." Her expression was sad and pinched. "I thought you understood that."

That shamed him. But not enough to make him back down. "You both seem to expect me to be _very_ understanding." Was he supposed to be untroubled by having the most precious parts of his life turned upside-down and smashed on the paving stones?

"It's the burden of a gentle temperament," she said. Her lip quirked. "A burden that I have little personal experience with, I admit." Self-effacing humor. She was trying to soften the moment.

He was not ready to laugh with her yet. "Perhaps I should try being more of a tyrant," he muttered, resentful.

Daenerys seemed to look down her nose at him, though she was one of the few people he knew who was shorter than him. "You can _try_ ," she said, softly, but with an edge as sharp as steel to it. She looked ready, once again, to do battle.

For his part, he felt suddenly very tired. What good was this doing? Using the jagged edges of what they'd lost to cut each other, just to see blood. There was satisfaction in it, but it was spiteful and shallow. He didn't want to hurt her; he wanted to stop hurting. Only a fool thought those were one and the same.

This reluctance to fight was, no doubt, further evidence of his damned 'gentle temperament.'

He walked back over to the bed, sat down. "What good would it do? You broke faith with me, Daenerys," the words came out rough, pained. "No petty tyranny could speak my sorrow." And fighting would let her off the hook: she could cast him as the enemy and ignore the truth of what she'd done.

Her shoulders slumped. "I didn't mean to let it get so far," she said, softly. "But I could never find the right words to explain."

"You love her," he said. "That part is simple enough to explain." He imagined it then, how the two of them would fall together. It was easy to picture; he knew them better than anyone. "Something in her calls to you," he said, "doesn't it? You would fight for her, pour yourself out for her." He remembered feeling something like that. A deep tugging in his heart as he looked at Sansa. It was the feeling that drove him, in the months leading up to the battle for Winterfell. Like their home, she had been desecrated. Sold to their enemies. Dishonored and scarred. But she stood proud despite everything. Never truly conquered. All she needed was someone, just one person, to take her part in life.

The urge to give that to her was almost involuntary, like the urge to draw breath kept dragging him forward, even when he'd wanted to lie down and die. They had always shared a heart for their people, he and Daenerys. Despite their differences, they loved the same. He had relished receiving such love from someone so extraordinary, her good heart answering to the call of his own.

It was a painful irony for that same capacity for love to drive them apart.

"How long did you struggle with your love?" he asked. "When did this begin?"

Her mouth opened and a soft vulnerability came over her face. He remembered it from the early days of their own love. "If I open my heart—" she started, looking wary.

"You have no guarantee I will be gentle with it," he said, finishing her thought. "But I think you owe me that much."

"Very well." She sat in a chair across from him, her posture dignified and erect. "The first time we were alone together," Daenerys said, "Sansa asked me if I intended to proceed by taking kingdoms from men on their sickbeds." A fond look passed over her face. "She thought I took advantage of you! There was nothing she could do but stand there, beautiful and cold as the North itself, looking down at me. If I was the tyrant she'd heard rumors about, it might have cost her life." Daenerys smiled then, admiration in her eyes. "She did it anyway."

"That was before we wed," he said, unable to hold back his shock.

"That, my dear, was _why_ we wed – in part, at least. I saw the injustice of holding an injured man's promise, made with no advisors there to consult, against him without any compensation."

Jon hadn't realized his devastation could increase, but it had, strangling his breath in his lungs. "Did you love me at all?" he rasped, feeling utterly lost. He never should have asked this of her; in the end, it was he who bared his heart for her to wound.

"I did!" she said, reaching forward to grab his hands. "I do. That's what you must understand, neither love displaces the other."

He pulled his hands away. "You're telling me you loved her from the first time you met…"

Daenerys shook her head. "Not wholly, it was the beginning. The first spark. I loved _you_ , so deeply it frightened me, but—" she licked her lips. "I am a queen, Jon. And she spoke to me in the terms of queens. I needed to hear her words, to understand that it was not merely my wish to marry you, but the right thing to do."

Rulers did not belong to themselves. He knew this and had reconciled himself to it; in fact, that common understanding of sacrifice was something he cherished sharing with Daenerys. It was clear now that the logic of that for her were far more pragmatic than she'd let him see before, however. But not more than Sansa knew. The same woman who could speak to him as Sansa had, when she tried to influence his rulership, would understand all of this.

"You came to trust her," he said, putting the pieces together.

"I could rely on her to tell me the truth. And once I agreed to marry you, I had secured something of her trust. I saw a glimpse of the warmth she kept guarded deep in her heart." Daenerys sighed, her posture losing its stiff pose. "It enthralled me. You ask me: when did I love her? It was—years, countless conversations, quiet understandings. The brush of her fingers against mine as she taught me to drop a stitch, the way she smiled when I showed her Dothraki braids. How slender and tall she felt in my arms when we danced. I cannot tell you precisely when. But I can tell you—" she leaned forward, grabbed his hand again, tightly this time, refusing to let go, "I can _swear_ to you that my love for you did not change or diminish, Jon." He could see in her eyes that she believed every word she spoke. "They grew together, so naturally entwined that I felt at times I was wed to both of you."

"And the physical…" he began, feeling overwhelmed but needing to know. Even though it was absurd, since his wife had admitted she had broken their vows more deeply than he could have imagined. She had considered herself wed to another while he had given his heart only to her.

The fierce light faded from her eyes, replaced by sadness. She released his hand. "What you saw, had we continued," she said, hollowly, "would have been the second time."

He almost pitied them, then. They had barely even begun to enjoy each other before being asked to answer for it. "You held back for years," he said, clinging to the evidence of fidelity.

"I did not wish to hurt you," she said, sadness in her eyes.

"And now that you have," he said, "what do you wish of me?"

"If you choose to forgive me," she said, "I would ask to live the truth that I have felt in my heart. I would ask to keep faith... with both of you." Again, he could see nothing but sincerity in her words. Sincerity and deep love that felt as true as ever, though changed. What was the word Sansa had used? _Shared_. "For the rest of my life."

It was an improvement over Sansa's declarations against honor. It didn't make him feel as if the world was slipping away beneath his feet, at least. Daenerys was trying to do the right thing. She was willing to bind herself to two people, to try to give them both her vow and her heart. She said that her heart was capable of this, and he wanted to believe her, even though he struggled to understand it.

"How would you do it?" he asked.

"Aegon the first took two wives..."

His stomach fell; she was letting love blind her, surely. "As Sansa told me last night, a lady may not take a wife, not even a Targaryen. The North would revolt, at the very least. They would say you dishonor their queen." The words hurt to speak. The same men who stood idly by, respecting Sansa's forced union with Bolton, would rebel at Daenerys "corrupting" their beloved queen.

"Yes," Daenerys said, "but a _man_ might take two wives, and our promises to each other are no one's affair but our own."

There was the shadow of something terrible within this. Several things. His simple disgust at what he knew of men who took many wives not the least. Beyond that, Daenerys would promise and try, but could her heart contain them both? He imagined long years of being nothing but a necessary formality, the legal bridge between them and their true love. It seemed colder, vaster, and more empty than life at the Wall had been.

"I would ask you for time, to think on what you've said." There was a knot in his chest, hard and tight, that he could not so easily untangle.

Her face was composed as she stood. "Of course," she said. "I understand." She touched his face, lightly. "I will wait on your decision as long as you need," she said, and left.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon got the time he asked for, to think it over. The self-imposed exile made Daenerys' case stronger than she ever could. He felt desperately alone. In their years of marriage, he and Daenerys had become so close it was as if they breathed and thought in the same rhythm. Without her, part of him was gone too.

He missed her and Sansa and he found that he missed _them_ as a unit. Though he had not known they were one until now. How often had he sat with them of an evening, enjoying the flow of conversation? They sparked with life when they were together. Witty and open, the careful layers of protection they wore around others happily set aside.

Their love had been part of his life all along.

She and Daenerys had fallen into their own rhythm right in front of him. He thought now, of how casually they touched. The way they seemed so relieved to talk, gaming out tricky political intrigue with easy laughter.

And he thought them sisters! Had, in fact, felt great joy that Sansa finally had a sister more like herself. Surrounded by boys and Arya, who wanted nothing of ladylike things, Sansa must have felt so alone.

But, no. He had been watching a love affair, warmed himself by its fire even, completely unaware. He knew there were men who loved each other, and men who hurt each other, but thought passion between women a rarer thing.

Perhaps it simply went unnoticed.

On the second day, he sent a raven to Sam, as carefully worded as he could make it. Jon began by asking how he and Gilly got on, and when next they would visit King's Landing. At the end of the note, Jon mentioned a deepening interest in family history and asked if Sam "knew much about Aegon I, Rhaenys, and Visenya. Do you suppose he was kind to them?"

Jon remembered that Arya had adored Rhaenys and Visenya as a child. That was due to their power and their dragons, though, not their martial practices. There were several books Daenerys had given him about their family history that he consulted, but personal details were sparse. How did one go about living as they had honorably? What did that look like?

On the third day, Sam's letter came. He and Gilly would be coming in a few months' time, and they were getting on well, his research into dragons opening up promising leads. As for the ancestors Daenerys wished to emulate: "It's hard to say, but both of the ladies had dragons. Would a man who wished to be unkind pick girls with dragons?"

There was truth to that. When people did this sort of thing cruelly, they chose easy victims, like Craster, abusing his own daughters. Sansa and Daenerys were queens with armies and a dragon; Jon had a dragon of his own and, if he wished, he could raise armies. Whatever they did, even if kindness failed them, they could not hurt each other overmuch, not without starting a war. And they had all seen too much of war to allow it to come to that.

They would put all their energies to making it work, and so it would work. Somehow. In Jon's desperation, that was enough. He could tell himself it was enough, and ignore the tight knot in his chest that suggested otherwise.

When he came to Daenerys' chambers, there was such worry in her eyes. He felt relief at that. Quickly set aside uncharitable thoughts of her and Sansa enjoying their time alone together.

"Do you love me still, truly?" he asked her. He had to hear it.

Daenerys stood, hands clasped together. She did that to keep from fidgeting. "As much as ever," she swore.

Jon sat on the bed and opened his arms to her. She came to him, cupped his face with her soft hands. Kissed his lips. "As much as ever," she repeated, looking into his eyes.

He pulled her into his lap, the purple silk of her gown cool against his hands. Hid his face in the hollow of her neck. If anyone could do such a thing as she suggested, it was Daenerys. She had such a depth of passion in her heart it awed him. And she would try with all her heart. He had to let her try. "I'll do it," he said.

She melted against him, shaking with soft sobs, evidence that their days apart had not passed easily for her either. When the storm passed, her fingers played gently with his curls. "Sweet man," she said, peppering his face with soft kisses. "I love you. I love you. Oh, how I love you."

Jon stroked his hands up the warm, bare skin of back, exposed by the daring cut of her dress, and kissed her throat. He nuzzled the soft, sweet spot just under her ear. "I missed you so much," he breathed, not bothering to put up a front. He sounded every bit as desperate as he felt.

Daenerys stroked her hands through his hair. "I wanted to come to you so many times. Only the thought of breaking another promise to you stopped me." Hearing that eased Jon's heart. He continued kissing her neck, his hands straying down to cup her bottom. She rocked her hips against him.

For a while they remembered each other and forgot everything else.

He chose to wait in the corridor when Daenerys went in to tell Sansa. Through the thick door he heard soft murmurs. Then Sansa came out, regal in a green silk gown and glowing with happiness.

"Would you take a turn with me?" she asked, her hand extended. He noticed that her lips looked thoroughly kissed. Daenerys had gone from his lips to hers, like a butterfly alighting on neighboring blossoms. That would be the way of things now, on this course they'd chosen. He knew that, but it still felt passing strange.

He gave her his arm.

When they reached the garden, Sansa broke the silence. "However did she persuade you?" she asked.

"She appealed," he said, "to my foolish honor." Evoking their prior conversation did his heart no good. What a sorry sight they'd made, tearing into each other. And how long had he let it fester, too preoccupied with his fears to approach her. Her soft hand with its long, graceful fingers rested lightly upon his arm. He covered it with his own fingers, blunt and calloused, and gave a gentle squeeze. "I regret the way I spoke to you, Sansa."

"You did nothing wrong," she said. "Whereas I was," she ducked her head, "horrible to you. Can you forgive me?"

It reminded him of another conversation, Sansa curled around a cup of Night's Watch soup, apologizing. _I was awful to you, admit it._ She had grown so much, she had a good three fingers of height on him, but every line of her body spoke vulnerability, pain, and fear. The once future queen of Westeros a beggar at his door. Nursing childhood slights was the furthest thing from his mind. He just wanted to wrap her in a blanket and keep her safe.

"Always," he said, patting her hand.

Once the weight of the moment passed, she said: "You will be by far my kindest husband." Her tone was gentle humor.

Jon chuckled. It was good, to find that he was ready to laugh about it now. "I thought that honor belonged to Lord Tyrion."

"He must never know he's been displaced in my affections," she said, with a great pretense of seriousness. The humor faded into companionable silence. When they were far along the path, away from prying and ears eyes, she brushed an errant lock of hair back from her face and cut a sidelong look at him. "Truly, Jon, how do you feel?"

The question brought an answer to mind. He felt shipwrecked, desperately clinging to whatever flotsam he could find. Not a truth he longed to share. But he could see from her face that his expression had given his distress away.

He patted her hand again, shook his head. He wouldn't lie to her, so he preferred to say nothing.

Sansa slowed to a stop, turning to face him. "Please tell me. I was unfair to you before, but I won't be now. This is too important."

Jon looked away, trying not to give in. He didn't know how to tell her without hurting her. And what good would it do?

She reached for his hands, first the right and then the left, capturing them with her slender fingers, so they were linked, standing there, their shadows making one whole, chimerical creature on the ground. "You can talk to me," she said, gently swaying their linked hands, as if she had all day.

He gripped her hands tighter, stilling the gentle movement. "I'll lose you both," he said. "If I don't do this."

Bran loved them all as much as he could recall how. And Arya would still love him. She had her own life, though, she came and went with Gendry as she pleased. He couldn't ask her to stick around in one place for him. Not like Daenerys and Sansa, who would be gone, in their hearts if nothing else, leaving him to tread water alone.

Sansa let the silence stretch on and on, her expression unwavering understanding. Drawing the truth out of him better than a pair of thumbscrews.

"I don't have a _choice_ ," he said, roughly, and released her hands, afraid he was hurting her. He crossed his arms and stared down at the ground, biting his lip. He shouldn't have said that.

Sansa lifted his chin to meet her eyes. "You're my family, Jon. I might get angry. I might say stupid things. But you will never lose me." He looked away, but she cupped his cheek, turned his face back to her. "You won't ever lose me," she repeated. "If this hurts you, I'll go back in and tell Daenerys I can't do it. I won't hurt you like this, I –" a blush came over her face, " _have_ hurt you, I know, in foolish passion. But marriage is a lifetime."

Her eyes were so bright and kind. Truth in every word.

A hot spark of tears came to his own eyes. He blinked them back, shaking his head. Then he, gently so she could push him away if she wanted, brought his hands up around her waist, where he knew her scars to be. Brushed his thumbs over the patterned silk of her green dress. "Was she your first?" he asked, and then corrected. "The first person to—" were there any proper ways to talk about this sort of thing with ladies? He frowned, trying to patch one together. "To make you feel good?"

Her face crumpled, lip quivering, eyes damp. Her own hands came up to cover his where they were spread over her waist. She nodded her head.

He sighed. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" There was nothing like it, nothing in the world like being that close to someone you loved.

"I've never been so happy," she whispered, fighting tears. "I knew it would hurt you. I knew I was taking something that wasn't mine. But I was still so happy…" she swallowed hard then, straightened up. "But I won't force you into a marriage for my selfish desires."

Somewhere inside the tight knot in his chest loosened, just a bit. Just enough.

He pulled her into a hug. "And I won't deny you love because I'm afraid," he said, meaning it with all his heart.

She melted against him, her height allowing her to curl around him with a sigh. He moved his hands to comfortingly stroke her back. It made him feel strong and a bit steadier, the way she leaned on him, trusting him to hold her up. "Don't tell anyone," she said, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, "but you're my favorite."

He breathed in the scent of her hair—rose and apples—and held her a long time, swaying as the midday sun warmed them from above and the sea breeze cooled them from the West, caught somewhere in a perfect in-between.

After a while, the moment passed and they released each other. She kissed his cheek, softly, with the lips that had just been kissing his queen. A tangle of heat pooled in his stomach. "I'm sure Daenerys is eager to know how we get on," she said, smoothing her gown.

They shared a fond smile. It was unnerving; Jon could see his own knowing affection for Daenerys reflected in her eyes. Every flaw made dear by love. They walked back together in silence as he tried to understand how this could feel so strange but not wrong. Not at all like the hardened hearts and callousness he feared.

Daenerys' eyes brightened when she saw their easy way together. She embraced them both in turn and led them to a table covered in fresh fruit and cheeses.

"How will the North react?" she asked, looking between them, rare uncertainty in her tone. Though she had spent weeks of wartime sleeping at Winterfell and fighting on their side, she did not understand the people. He privately thought she gave Sansa as much autonomy as she had-at least in part-because she preferred having a buffer between her and the rebellious Northern lords. She found Sansa more pleasant to deal with.

He supposed he hadn't been wrong about that, at least. Daenerys found Sansa's company very pleasant indeed.

"They know me," Jon said, simply. After his parentage was revealed there was an uneasy time, as men who had known him his whole life seemed to wonder if he would sprout horns and begin a despotic reign. When neither appeared, they treated him as always. Raised by Ned Stark, with Stark blood, regardless of name or title. No one called him Aegon in the North, not like some did in the South with a simpering note in their voices.

Sansa agreed. "It's a better guarantee against future wars than all our treaties combined. And my people are tired of war." Her face brightened as she casually touched Daenerys' hand. "They might even do us the compliment of thinking we planned it all along."

Daenerys smiled back, her thumb gently stroking the top of Sansa's hand as she picked up the thought. "We couldn't announce it during the war or aftermath, given the unusual nature of it. But now that the dust has long since settled..."

They suited each other well. He had noticed it before, when he thought it was a sisterly bond. But now, the remains of that knot in his chest grew heavy and he glanced away, only to be brought back by Daenerys' warm hand clasping his. "Should the marriage take place in the North, do you think?" she asked.

It was a question she could have easily asked Sansa. Instead she included him, sending a clear message, combined with the reassurance of her touch. Again, just a bit more, the knot loosened. "Aye, in the godswood." He pictured it then, making a promise to Sansa before the gods, and the thought was not so unwelcome.

What would he be promising her, after all, that he had not already given her in some fashion?

"And without my good company," Daenerys continued. "They have no love for me." There was real hurt there, he knew. The North reacted to her with a cold, respectful indifference she would never understand.

Jon raised her hand, kissed it. The act was instinctive, and then he saw the warm approval in Sansa's eyes and felt the strangeness once again. They felt the same way about the same person, mirroring each other. It became more pleasant each time, though. And it gave him an idea. "There are those of the North who love you," he said. He could speak now for more than just himself on that account.

Deanerys' face lighted with smile. "Indeed, I've won the favor of their very best," she said, glancing between them, squeezing their hands gently.


	4. Chapter 4

On the night he wed Sansa, Jon felt like an invader in her chambers. He noticed her stiffen when he closed the door behind them and hastened to reassure her. "I'll sleep on the floor," he said, quickly. It would suit him well enough for one night, with some furs and a blanket.

Sansa turned, her expression softening. She crossed the room and hugged him tightly. "You are very kind," she said, pulling back to smile at him. "But I won't allow it. What would Daenerys say, if I send you back to her with a crick in your neck?" she asked. They were comfortable enough now to joke about how protective Daenerys could be. It was sometimes a flaw, but one that neither of them would wish to live without.

"But the floor looks so inviting," he joked, still offering Sansa a way out.

"Indeed," she said, playing along, "I've often thought so myself! And if my husband wishes to sleep there, I would join him." She tenderly smoothed her hands over the fine fur they'd dressed him in for the ceremony. "And then _you_ will have to answer for the crick in _my_ neck."

Jon mock shuddered at the thought. "We'll use the bed, I think."

Sansa laughed. There were no other false starts, once the tension was thus broken. They helped each other out of their finery and dressed for bed behind a screen. When they were under the warm furs, Sansa put her hand out, palm up, in the respectable distance between them. Gave him a look as she wiggled her fingers invitingly.

He took her hand. "If you're of a mind to speak of it," he started, "I would hear how you first fell for Daenerys." He had heard Daenerys' side of things, back when it had done little but pain him. But they were embarking on something new now, and he wanted to understand it. The love he was now part of, joined in a web of vows and promises.

She frowned, but didn't ask why he was prying. "When I first felt it, or when I first knew what I felt?"

"Are they so different?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Very much. When you hear enough people say it's wrong, it becomes hard to admit, even to yourself." Her lip quirked. "Do you know, for the longest time I thought what I felt was just how it was, loving a sister more like myself?" her eyes sparkled with humor, though there must be hurt there too.

Jon recollected his own misunderstanding on that front. Wondering how often such things went unnoticed, trampled over by a world that cared little how women felt. It was sad to think that even the women themselves were taught not to notice their own feelings. But it comforted him, to know that he had not been the lone fool thinking such things. They had shared in his confusion, at least in part, believing themselves beloved sisters. Trying to force themselves to fit within the only love they were allowed without threat of punishment.

"Tell me when you first felt it," he said. Doubtlessly, the story of realizing would be more painful. He would hear that, but another time. This day was supposed to be a happy one.

"You'll laugh," she warned.

"I promise I won't," he said, even more curious now. What could be so funny about it?

She looked at him a long moment and apparently saw truth in him. "It was the during negotiations for Northern autonomy," she confessed.

He didn't laugh, but he had to suppress a smile that burned in his cheeks. "You really _do_ like politics," he observed, wryly.

It was Sansa who laughed then, squeezing his hand. "I was drawn to her before that," she amended, "but that is when she had my heart, I think."

"Why then?"

"I saw that she understood me," Sansa said. "All that I hoped for and needed. And she gave that to me, as much as she could – delicately, so I would not feel indebted." As she finished speaking, happy tears came to her eyes, and a look of such naked love he felt his own chest ache with it.

Jon raised her hand to his lips, kissed it tenderly. "You will never be parted," he promised. "Not if I have a choice in it." It felt like the part of their vows that had been missing, now complete. He felt his heart warm at the thought of being part of them now, invited deeper into their hearts, to share not only their love for him but for each other too. To be able to shelter and protect them.

The fact remained that it was a strange. People did not write songs about such love, except perhaps to warn against it. Beyond that fact stood the truth that it was also good in a way he had not expected.

Sansa watched him, a thoughtful look on her face. "There is but one other person who has given me so much," she said.

"Who?" he asked. Perhaps Arya, who had become her closest advisor over the years. Or the woman before, who she had loved and lost.

She raised his hand and kissed it tenderly, returning his gesture. "I just married him," she said, warmth in her eyes.

Her words hit him like a shock; he was dumbstruck, and so warmed by her regard he felt he could go wandering in the snow outside and not feel it.

"Sansa—" he started. He felt keenly aware that they were lying in bed together, hands touching, on their wedding night. Before he could think better of it, his thumb traced a soft course over the tender skin of her palm.

Her fingers curled at the contact and he heard her soft gasp, saw her eyes widen. She swallowed hard and gently moved her hand away. Before he could form a reply, she turned over and snuggled deeper under the covers. "Goodnight, Jon."

Her body was stiff, belying her feigned sleep.

"Goodnight," he said, a thunderstorm raging in his heart. After a while, he called Ghost up from the floor. The direwolf came, settling down at their feet, a big, warm chaperone. One eager for petting too, it seemed. Ghost nuzzled against Jon's leg invitingly and he reached down, stroked the silky soft fur.

Jon had left Ghost here on permanent assignment to watch over Sansa. If anything happened, Jon would know about it through their connection faster than any raven could fly. And, if they pushed it, he and Rhaegal could be here in a matter of hours. At the time he had decided this, he believed it to be a practical choice.

There were, indeed, many practical reasons for it.

Now it seemed something else. Leaving part of his soul here, to watch over Sansa. Not just for an alert, should danger come, but knowing that when he dreamed he'd share some of Ghost's thoughts, know something of her days. Her comfort rubbing Ghost's tummy by the fire. The way she sang to the direwolf sometimes, when they were alone.

 _There is but one other person who has given me so much._

Jon had been so focused on the love he and Sansa now had in common, it had escaped him how he and Daenerys too might be mirrors of each other.

xXx

"First one royal wife," Arya said the next morning, walking beside him to the training ground, "now two. You might have an army of them soon. Though, gods know how you'll afford to outfit them all. Miles of silk and shiploads of jewels…"

Her words plucked Jon right out of his dour thoughts. As they were doubtlessly intended to.

It seemed wrong to ruffle a grown woman's hair like she was a child, but this called for a suitably juvenile response. He nudged her shoulder with his own, just roughly enough. She elbowed him back, hard, and smiled.

"Touched a sore spot, did I?" she asked, wit and something deeper in her eyes. She wanted to know how he fared, and this was how she said it.

He laughed. Now that she was grown, and certain in herself, it was possible to talk to her in an easy way that pleased them both. It was the bond they shared as children, made deeper by time. Emotions filtered through humor and casual irreverence, but no less real because of it. It made it easier to shut aside his sorrow at the evidence of her suffering. Sorrow that it would only pain her to see. Jon kept on with the humor, enjoying it. "Gendry would marry you whenever you wish, you know," he jibed back. "And many more besides. Then you might begin your own collection."

"Gods, no! One man is just about worth the bother. Two or more…" she made a sour face. "I think not."

The exchange plucked him out of his worries, but did not succeed in keeping them from his mind. At the risk of ruining their good humor, he asked: "How did you know when you loved him?" He felt embarrassed of the question as soon as it was out of his mouth, but he was too eager for insight to truly regret it.

Her eyebrows shot up, but she was game enough. "Well, first I wanted to be family with him," she said. "Then, when we met again, I wanted him too." She said it casually, unashamed. Jon was happy for her, at the way passion didn't seem to bother her. He had many regrets, for the years he stayed at the Wall while she suffered torments alone in the world. He would carry those to his grave. But he could see no evidence of the things he saw in Sansa and Daenerys' eyes sometimes. The rape they had suffered at men's hands. It didn't relieve him from the responsibility he felt for the horrors Arya had known, but it was something to be grateful for. She shrugged. "It's really not that complicated, Jon."

"It is for some," he said. He was her opposite in that way, needing to brood endlessly over his feelings to understand them. Sometimes he envied Arya the way she could just get on with it.

She rolled her eyes. Jon thought the conversation done, but when they came to the training ground, she gave him her own moment of sincerity. "If you ever tire of your excess of wives," she said, "you can always come visit us."

It lightened his heart considerably to hear that. "Thank you," he said. The fact that the offer existed was enough to calm his mind. "I'll remember that."

"All right," she said, taking up a defensive stance. "Let's see if you still have that hole in your guard, eh, big brother?"

"A hole only you could possibly sneak through," he grumbled, and they launched into it, a wordless communication, grounded in deep trust. It made the world and its worries fall away for a time.

xXx

The first night they were all together at King's Landing, Daenerys drew them to bed. She snuggled between them, nesting their arms and legs around her as if it was the most natural thing. And, indeed, it did feel right, the unease of his wedding night with Sansa banished. That was one of the things he loved about Daenerys. The sheer force of her personality. She could charge forward into the unknown, making the impossible seem possible.

As they cuddled, she gave them each a chaste kiss. Jon couldn't help smiling at her. She looked as happy as a cat in cream.

Sansa's love for her was clear too. There was a soft, dreamy look about her, as if all her troubles were lifted. Sansa tried so hard to be strong for everyone. To give and support. With Daenerys, he saw that she could take. Caught in the rapturous wake of her love. Also evident as was Sansa's discomfort; she kept casting quick glances at him, like a thief caught in the act. It hurt him to see, while sharing in their joy, he found, did not hurt at all.

He reached out, clasped Sansa's hand where it lay at Daenerys' hip, gave her a smile.

She smiled back, then nestled her head in the crook of her lover's shoulder and mouthed, just between the two of them, _thank you_.

It struck a chord deep inside him. Somehow, despite the initial pain, he had lost nothing. Daenerys was true to her word, her love somehow miraculously doubled rather than cut in half. Before he could think better of it, he leaned down, cupped Sansa's cheek and pressed a tender kiss to her brow.

Their wedding night came back to his mind as he settled back. Raising questions about his part in this that he continued to struggle to answer.

Arya had said first she wanted to be family with Gendry, and then she wanted him.

Jon had wanted to be family with Sansa as long as he could remember.

He used to fantasize, as a boy, about saving Sansa from danger. She was such a perfect little lady, ideally suited to the role. He would fight off a bear or a band of knaves, and then carry her home to be welcomed by everyone. Father would give him a look of pride. Lady Stark would embrace him, tears shining in her eyes. He would be finally accepted, finally home.

When the time came that she truly needed to be saved from a monster, he remembered those hopes. His child's mind had not understood what knaves really were. Nor want it meant for a girl to be caught by one of them. He felt guilt at his prior fantasies. But that did not quiet the satisfaction it gave him to be suddenly everything to her, her protector and champion. The way a single glance from her in the morning could wipe away the dark fog of dreams where he was forever lost in the cold darkness.

Her smile, her embrace, began to feel like home then. The home he fought for, terrified of how badly the odds were stacked against them. Jon prodded at these feelings, trying to determine if desire had come into it without him noticing. Was the sudden shock of feeling on their wedding night an accident of circumstance or something more long-standing?

It was daunting, and his mind backed away from it. This, right now, was enough. The happiness he felt, holding Daenerys in his arms, his hand clasped with Sansa's, was not like anything he had pictured, neither as a child nor as a man. It followed no sanctioned pattern. They had to trace its contours themselves, fumbling along the way, trusting in each other to be kind. When bards sang songs of Aegon VI and his two queens, they would get everything wrong. But he fell asleep marveling that he had found, in these strangest of circumstances, the acceptance and home he had longed for.

xXx

The months that followed were a wonder of planning. Daenerys managed her husband and wife as well as she balanced the seven kingdoms. Sharing of herself freely, though separately, sleeping between them during Sansa's visits.

Jon found that time spent together with them was much the same as always. They talked just as easily with him, their casual touches were no more and no less. Apart from a chaste kiss on the lips here and there. Their love was merely no longer something they all hid from, but part of a natural whole, commingling with his love for them both.

As their comfort in each other deepened, their sleeping arrangements shifted. Sometimes he would awake to find them cuddled around him. At other times Sansa would be between him and Daenerys, their dear wolf queen, sheltered by her dragons. It felt so natural, shifting melodies in a fixed scale of three notes. It was not at all like the cacophony he had once feared.

His sole discomfort was his new awareness of Sansa, which grew after their wedding night. He watched her blossom under Daenerys' love. It had always seemed to him that Sansa wore her beauty, and whatever interest it might attract, like an article of clothing. Outside herself, only there because it had to be worn. A lady must be beautiful, among all the other things she had to be. But, just beneath the surface, there was a strong message: keep away. Don't touch me.

There were men who enjoyed trespassing on women, and men who were too stupid to notice. Jon was neither. And that made it easy to never overstep. To pretend he had never even wished to overstep at all.

But now it was if she had found a home in her own body. Though they were not obvious about it in front of him, he could sense the shape of it, knowing them both as he did. Daenerys showed Sansa how to glory in her own sensuality, to feel powerful and joyful in it. He had always been enthralled by the way Daenerys took pleasure, so unafraid. Embracing the world. Embracing him with all that she was.

Watching that light catch in Sansa's eyes was like witnessing a miracle, a goddess of love bestowing a kiss upon Sansa's brow, bringing her to life. To warmth. She had been wandering in the cold for so long. Daenerys brought her spring.

The beauty of it made his breath catch. He wondered if it was possible to be in love with two people and their love for each other too.

Jon began to understand something of what had held Sansa and Daenerys back from admitting their own feelings, to themselves, each other, or him. It was all so damned complicated. Just as they had found a good rhythm together, a new way to love and be that had seemed impossible, he started wanting even more impossible things.

xXX

That state of affairs, joy and uncertainty, lasted a few weeks longer. As he tried to imagine how he would even begin to approach this with them. Before he could, his feelings betrayed him. He awoke one morning to find himself sleepily kissing Sansa's neck. She was arching back into him, drawing his hand to her breast. The fog cleared from his mind and he looked up, saw Daenerys regarding them with an interested expression. It hit him like a shock of cold water and he fled, pulling on clothes in a rush.

The queensguard found him a formidable enemy in the practice yard that day, as he fought out all the confusion and worry in his heart.

The simple fact that remained, after every muscle was sore, was that they knew now. There was no avoiding it. He wouldn't lie to them and he couldn't honestly say he hadn't known it was her this morning. He had merely, in the sweetness of sleep, neglected to remember why that was inappropriate.

It could not be so wrong, to expect the same understanding for himself that he had once given them, at the beginning of this. Nonetheless, he feared what this would mean. Was it a betrayal of Daenerys? Or an offense to Sansa who, despite marrying him, had never expressed any interest in lying with a man again?

It sickened him to think she might never again feel at ease sleeping in the same bed with him and Daenerys. The time they shared together had become precious to him. If only he could erase this morning, have everything safe and right once more.

They had only just charted a safe path through this unmapped territory. He didn't want to throw it away, start again.

He walked into their bedchambers with a heavy heart that night. They were both there, sitting out on the terrace. It seemed fitting to start with Sansa.

"I'm sorry," he said, "for—" he tried to find the words, "imposing on you."

"Please, don't be," Sansa said, nothing but welcome in her eyes. "I enjoyed it." A blush colored her cheeks. "Very much."

Jon looked quickly to Daenerys, to gauge her reaction.

"I enjoyed it as well," she said, firmly. "I love you both. It would bring me joy to see you happy together." There was a smoldering interest in her eyes that he felt on his skin, as if she was touching him. "Perhaps, even, to watch you bring each other joy."

The thought of touching Sansa like that, with Daenerys' keen attention on them both, sent a rush of heat over him such that he felt feverish with it. Jon sank down in a chair across from them, the ground having once again fallen away from under his feet. He was stunned. It was if he had plotted how to pick a lock and suddenly found the door thrown open wide before him. "Do you two enjoy tormenting me," he muttered, overwhelmed.

Daenerys chuckled; Sansa shot her a sharp look. "Of course not," she said, kindly.

He realized what a silly thing it was to say, tried to correct it. "I am glad," he said, looking between them. "That you – that is, I'd worried…" For so many agonizing weeks! Thinking he would ruin everything. And it could have been this easy the whole time. He swallowed, shook his head. "But what does this mean?" he asked. "How do we do this?" What were the rules now? They traveled so far beyond the bounds of anything he understood.

"We love each other," Daenerys said, a smile at her lips. "We thank any gods we still believe in, for being so blessed. And we do what feels right."

"As long as it feels right to _everyone_ ," Sansa added.

"What would you like of us?" Daenerys asked, the gleam in her eyes. It never ceased to amaze him, the way she made the world bend before them, even as they rushed into the unknown.

His muscles were sore from the long day practicing, his heart was overwhelmed with relief and sweet confusion. "Honestly?" he asked, scrubbing a hand over his face. "For now, I just want to hold you both," he said, "and sleep."

They exchanged a glance and came upon him, gentle hands leading him to the bed. They stripped him down and held him close, each pressing a kiss as firm as a promise to his lips. Their love was his only certainty, their reassurances his only guide in this new, fantastical realm. He slept between them that night, their warmth and breath, their hands entwined across him, their legs tangled together, like an anchor in the wide, wide sea.

 **-end-**


End file.
